I used to be a witty writer. I could babble about cheese and it’d make sense. Not only would it make sense it’d be amusing. Cheese. I shit you not. I’d ramble at the drop of a hat and wouldn’t need to proofread anything. Either I am truly becoming boring – which people say I’m not (Oh no, you’re charming. You’re lovely. Oh do go on!) – or Hanover has knocked out my ability to just write for the sake of writing, without a grade attached. Taking out all of the fluidity of my thoughts until I can’t write a paragraph without going back, rewording it, deleting it completely, and doing it all over again on a similar basis as the original. And am I happy with the final result? Nope.
I write for fun with other people. RP. Yeah, it’s geeky, and it’s glorious. And I have characters with over 20 years of history. I used to be able to RP at any time. Now I have no motivation to. It’s not like I’m bored with the characters, because I’m not. They’re my brain’s love children. Every good quality (and bad if so be needed) is there. Fun story. But when it comes down to writing out things it takes a lifetime.
And then my friends get very frustrated because their little fix isn’t being sufficiently met.
See the problem there?
Damn you Hanover. I wish I could go back, but I wish I could write for myself, too. Tragic, I tell you.
PS: Kittens have fleas. They’re getting the dunk tomorrow morning. Not looking forward to soaping them up (which is probably why Amy is stepping in so kindly because I’m a chicken).